Page 27 of Assistant to the Assassin

“Yes, why?”

“Make a bridge with your back and hips.”

She tilts her pelvis up towards me, and because of the position I’m in, she pushes right up against my cock. It takes all my efforts not to groan. She stays like that as she waits for my instructions, and if I didn’t know better, I would say there’s a blush forming in her cheeks.

“At the same time, pull your arms down towards your waist,” I instruct. “Try it.”

She does both at once, thrusting her pelvis into mine, and a grunt escapes me.

I pray she doesn’t look down right now.

“You see how it puts me off-balance?” My voice sounds thicker than usual, but I try to stay focused. “I’m forced to catch myself, giving you an opportunity to get the upper hand. What you have to do next is hug on to my torso, keeping me off-balance, then you grab onto this arm and push it between us. It will allow you to pull us both aside so you’re now on top.”

She does as I say, but when it comes time to pull us to the side, she rolls the wrong way and I end up having all my weight on her. She lets out a little squeak, and I immediately push up onto my elbows, not wanting to crush her. “Roll the other way.”

She tries again, this time rolling to the left, and she ends up on top of me like I planned. She now straddles my hips, with her hands on my arms, and I was unprepared for how turned on the view of her on top of me makes me. It only gets worse when she grins down at me triumphantly and says, “Look who’s the star pupil.”

I like this side of her, this competitiveness. “Careful. Too much confidence in a dangerous situation can lead to mistakes.”

She shrugs. “You’ve made it through and you’re the cockiest bastard I know.”

I grab on to her hips and flip us back over, and this time I lay my body along hers, completely pinning her down. “See? Instead of witty remarks, you could have slit my throat and saved yourself. But now you’re mine.”

I expect her to glare at me or call me an asshole, but instead her lips part and her breath catches. I look into her eyes and see her pupils widen, arousal filling her gaze. Whether unconsciously or not, she gently presses her body up against mine, and I feel myself harden to the point of pain. From now on, when I train Beth, I need to wear looser boxers, because this won’t cut it. I feel like circulation has been cut off from my dick.

“We should take a break,” I croak out, slowly lifting myself off of her.

She continues to lie on the floor, giving me a slow nod. “Yeah. A break would be good.”

The two of us are sitting down in the kitchen eating some Campbell’s soup from a can, with the news playing in the background on his laptop, which is resting in front of us on the table, but I can’t bring myself to pay attention. My mind is too preoccupied with the knowledge of our shared feelings and the near dry humping session we had today. With one peek at H, I know that he’s not listening to the news either. His eyes aren’t even on the screen.

I’m able to distract myself for a bit as I check my blood sugar and dose for my food, but pretty soon I’m sitting there as stiffly and quietly as he is.

Say something, Beth. Something to break the ice. “How come you never told me you were religious?” I ask quietly.

He tears his eyes from the table and stares at me, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t want to be one of those people that stuffs God down someone else’s throat.”

“Talking about something important to you isn’t the same as forcing your beliefs on others,” I argue, twirling my spoon around in the bowl. “You can talk about it with me if you want to. I was raised Baptist, but I stopped practicing religion after my parents died.”

Henry’s eyes refocus on the bowl of soup in front of him, and I see his expression harden into stone. “My mother raised me Catholic.”

Oh.

I know he wants to change the subject, and usually I would let him, but there’s something about our situation and what we’ve shared today that makes me pry. “Do you continue to practice because of her?”

“Yes and no.” He sighs, licking his lips. “My father was Italian; his parents moved to the States when he was a baby, and they raised him Catholic. My mom converted to Catholicism when they got married, and as a way to keep his spirit alive in death, she raised me in the faith. She firmly believed in being kind to everyone, helping those who need it, and never harming anyone. She would say hello to everyone she passed by on the street, would give whatever money she had in her wallet to the poor, and she volunteered most of her free time at charities. I asked her once if she did any of it to ensure she went to heaven to see Dad, but she said she didn’t care about where she ended up. She just wanted to help people.”

I grin at that, imagining the warm smile of Henry’s mother in the wedding picture. “She sounds like an amazing woman.”

He nods, still staring down into his bowl. “She’s why I do what I do. There are too many evil people in this world, and too many good people pay the price. I don’t care if I end up in hell as long as I can ensure I’m taking others down there with me.”

Instinctively I reach out and touch his arm, where a tattoo of Mother Mary rests. “I don’t think you’re destined for hell, H.”

“The Lord examines the righteous, but the wicked, those who love violence, he hates with passion.” His eyes lift to mine. “Psalms 11:5. God believes it’s wrong to fight evil with evil.”

“But you don’t?”

“How many cases in the CIA did we work that had casualties that could have been avoided?” he asks rhetorically, his eyes flicking to the TV, where a news story details another mass shooting in the US, at a grocery store. “In all these organizations, whether they be the military, the CIA, the FBI—you have to follow a code. There are lines you cannot cross, just like in religion. But the evil in this world doesn’t follow rules, and if you want to save the most lives, you have to play as dirty as they do. After working in the military and in the CIA, I learned that lesson the hard way.”

---